


Who's Hungry?

by TactheJoker



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/pseuds/TactheJoker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony sucks at cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Hungry?

At the ‘click’ of glass on wooden table, and a very odd stench, Ivan looked up from his Russian newspaper to see an odd presentation. Tony, his partner these last six years, had set a plateful of…something, in front of him; Ivan looked up at the bright-eyed American over the rim of his rectangular reading glasses, and was a little confused by the expression of pride Stark wore. For a second, the big Russian remained silent, working out in his head what his appropriate reaction should be in this situation; at last he decided upon a non-committed approach to the oddity before him.  
“Vat is this?” he asked, feigning pleasant surprise, the surprise was easy, it was keeping his voice light that was the difficulty, and to keep his expression blank rather than have the repulsed twitches that threatened to tug his mouth down in a disgusted frown at the smell that originated from the plate take over his face.  
“It’s breakfast.” Tony said, “I made it myself while you were in the shower.”  
“Really?” Ivan said, not believing that Tony could think this was edible; Hell, he’d met starving feral dogs in the wastes of Siberia that would have turned up their snouts at this. Tony nodded, however, and his proud smile was still plastered on his face, ‘Dear God, he is serious.’ Ivan thought with dismay, ‘Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t ask me to choke this down because I won’t.’   
Tony stood with his arms akimbo, as though in creating the plate of monstrosity he had conquered a terrible foe. “Yup,” Tony said. “I’ve never made an omelet before, so I figured that I’d better start learning. It didn’t come out too bad I think, especially for a first try.”   
Ivan blinked, staring down at the plate, and thinking, ‘Have you ever seen an omelet? Because this isn’t what one looks like.’ Was Tony even looking at this thing? Did he really delude himself that much to think he’d done a decent job? Tony set a fork down next to the plate and stepped back, anticipation on his face; “Go ahead and try it,” he said. “I’d like to know what you think.”  
‘No you do not.’ Ivan thought, because he could think of a few choice words to express his distaste, but he was afraid to. Tony could be a little sulky at times and tender-skinned when it came to criticism of his work, mechanical or otherwise; Ivan had found this out by observation and by his own hard lesson. There were just some things Tony couldn’t take, and knowing him as well as Ivan now did, culinary criticism was no doubt one of them.  
Just as Ivan was about to swallow his pride and pick up the fork, thus dooming his tender taste-buds to uncalled-for agony, the sound of small tromping feet were heard on the stair-well. In a flurry of black and white Sylvester the Cat pajamas Ivan and Tony’s daughter Sonja swept into the dinning room and gave her mom a big hug around the middle, one that was returned with equal vigor.  
“Morning mommy!” She chirped happily, and presented over-puckered lips to be kissed.  
“Good morning pumpkin.” Tony said with a grin, and pecked her lips with his own over-puckered pair. Sonja trotted around the table and gave her father a kiss on the cheek and a hug around the neck.  
“Morning Papa.” She said in Russian; Ivan had made certain she would grow up knowing his language. “Good morning Hummingbird.” He said with a smile and returned her kiss with his own on her rosy cheek. He saw her look down at the mass of who-knows-what on his plate and eye it with curiosity. “Oh right!” Tony cried and rushed back into the kitchen. When he left Sonja asked, “What is it Papa?” Ivan shook his head as he played in an absent-minded fashion with her hair. “I have no idea, but don’t touch it.”  
That order, however, would prove to be difficult to follow as Tony returned carrying another plate of the awful gunk; to Ivan’s dismay his partner had put it on one of Sonja’s kiddy-plates and he set it down in Sonja’s normal eating spot at the table. Without question, but with a dubious look on her young face, Sonja sat obediently in her chair and awaited explanation of what she was supposed to do with the gross mass in front of her. When her mother set a kiddy-fork next to the plate her eyes bulged and she looked to her father, eyes desperate, pleading for help, and eager to know what she had done wrong to be punished so. With an inward grimace Ivan nodded towards Tony and said in Russian. “Be generous Sonja; your mother slaved over it.”   
With a little tightness around the corners of her mouth Sonja gave her mother a sweet as pie smile, “Thank you mommy; it looks good.” Tony smiled back and took a sip of his juice, waiting with eager eyes to watch them enjoy it; Ivan, however, was going to have none of it. He’d suffer through Tony’s horrid cooking, it was in the job description of being married after all, but he wouldn’t put their daughter through it and force her to lie to her own mother. Ivan thought fast and looked up at the clock on the wall; he jumped up so fast his chair almost toppled, startling Tony. Ivan strode to the counter and snatched a slice of bread from the bag.  
“Ivan,” Tony said alarmed. “What’s wrong?”  
The older man grabbed jelly and a spoon and spread the purple gel on the slice of bread, explaining in a hurried voice as he did so.  
“You haff meeting in one hour vith head manufacturer, you must not be late!”  
“Relax!” Tony said, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t have to leave for a half-hour; I know some short-cuts, and I have a fast car, I’ll be there on time.” He took a drink of juice, turning away, but Ivan spun him around.   
“You get pulled over, you be more late; leave now and be early. Give them big shock.” He had rolled up the jellied slice of bread and now he crammed it into the smaller man’s mouth before he could protest.   
“Briefcase is in car, keys are in jacket, jacket is in hallway.” He grabbed Tony’s arm and dragged him out of the dinning room, ignoring his muffled objections, and helped him make his way to the door. Before he left the dinning room he stuck his head back in and mouthed to Sonja, pointing at the failed omelet. ‘Don’t touch that!’ He disappeared a moment later.  
Sonja sat in silence at the table, wondering at the odd actions of her parents and at the disgusting food she was thankful she had been told not to touch. After a while her father came back, running his hand through his grizzled hair with a sigh; he came over to the table and put a hand on the back of her chair and the other on his hip, staring down at the pathetic attempts at breakfast. Sonja looked up at him and asked, “I don’t have to eat it, do I?”  
Ivan looked down at her, then back at the plate; he took up his own dish, stared at it for a moment, then turned it upside-down.  
The omelet didn’t budge, not even to drip grease.  
He took up her plate and turned it upside-down with the same result; glancing down at her he said, “I think it’s time for a real breakfast, what do you think?”  
Sonja giggled and nodded. Ivan sighed again at the absurdity he had to deal with day-in and day-out in this house, and took the plates back into the kitchen; with some difficulty he scraped the gross masses off into the sink and ran the garbage disposal, a slight worry in the back of his mind that the stuff might break the disposal, but it all went down without a hitch. Albeit, rather louder than normal.   
He roamed around the kitchen, getting out the makings for a real omelet and going over in his mind the best way to break to Tony that he should leave the cooking either up to a professional chef, which he could without a doubt afford, or himself. Ivan knew Tony was eager to play home-maker ever since Sonja came into their lives, but there were some things that were better left to others who knew what they were doing. He sighed as he put a pan on the stove to heat, ‘How do I say it?’ he wondered. ‘Tony my dove, throwing food together does not make one a cook, especially if it makes an unidentifiable blob, nor does putting said blob on a plate make it a meal.’  
He paused and considered the speech.  
‘Maybe not so harsh.’ He thought, and broke several eggs into a bowl for mixing.


End file.
